


Rumor Hazard

by Cahaya (Tarlaith)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Banter, Family Secrets, Gathering Intel, Gen, Rescue Mission, technically also a bit of The Good The Bad The Weird?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10054385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlaith/pseuds/Cahaya
Summary: Gaby Teller runs into an old acquaintance. It's kinda unexpected because she thought he'd blown himself up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> No idea where this came from, but writing it was fun! :D  
> Thanks to _Trinculo_ for proofreading.  
>  (For translations see End Notes.)
> 
> Enjoy!

Growing up in post-war Germany, Gaby Teller's childhood dreams of being a princess had died a quick and early death on the morning of her sixth birthday, when she danced into the kitchen in her favorite blue skirt and found her _Mama_ weeping onto the stove. It was the day her father fled the ruins of East Berlin to start a new life in the States, leaving his wife and daughter to survive on their own in the war-torn wasteland. She had never missed those dreams – she had better things to do with her time, like feed herself and her sick mother – and never minded being covered in motor oil rather than ball gowns, but sneaking out of an upper crust fundraiser with Illya's hands on her silver cocktail dress still made her heart beat a little faster.

She leaned into his touch, enjoying the rough slide of his calloused fingers around the cold weight of five hundred dollar's worth of jewelry on her neck. He replied with a low rumble and pushed her into the darkness of the hallway, ducking down to meet her lips for a kiss as he kicked the door shut behind them. The cacophony of one hundred and fifty voices mingled with suggestive jazz rhythms cut off at once. As soon as they were alone, Illya slipped his hand beneath her dress, trailing his fingertips up her inner thigh until he found her leg holster.

In the absolute darkness surrounding them Gaby couldn't see his face, but she sure as hell heard his chuckle. “What's so funny?”

He tapped the gun strapped to her thigh. “This one. Good choice.”

He pulled it out and handed it to her. The gun – the same model that Victoria Vinciguerra had used to kill her father – felt light in Gaby's hands, or maybe just familiar, now that she spent four hours a day with target practice.

She heard a rustle of clothing as Illya drew his own gun and straightened. “Which way?”

“Here.”

He took her hand and tugged, and his eyes must have adjusted a lot faster than hers because he set a brisk pace. Gaby had to run to keep up, acutely aware of the loud slap of her heels echoing from the walls and her own thundering heartbeat. Her hand in Illya's turned sweaty, but he didn't say anything. Maybe he suspected it would trigger another lecture about “teamwork” and “I'm not letting you kill yourself out of chronic hubris.”

Originally, Gaby's job had been to distract the mansion's super rich owner while her team did the sneaking and infiltrating and stealing of important intel, but the snobby gentleman had shown more interest in Napoleon's suave smirk than her plunging neckline. She wasn't as upset as she probably should be, because nothing beat an opportunity to see Illya in action, but she hadn't anticipated how scared she'd be.

A cold breeze washed over Gaby's legs, startling her out of her thoughts. She shivered.

“Stairs, left,” Illya whispered and let go of her.

Icy panic shot through Gaby's veins. She grit her teeth, determined not to show her fear. Her career in UNCLE hinged on this mission. “After you.”

She reached out to touch the closest wall. It curved beneath her fingertips and she frowned before realizing that it was the steadfast central pillar of a spiral staircase. The almost inaudible scrape of Illya's shoes quieted beneath her and she hurried after him, focusing so much on not slipping that she didn't notice he'd stopped and ran into him. A distinct mix of fur and grass and manure assaulted her nose, which was impossible since he was dressed as spiffy as herself, the thick “stay away from me” leather jacket nowhere in sight.

Gaby sniffed. “Are we in the stables?”

Her voice resounded louder than she'd anticipated and was answered by a deep growl.

Illya stepped in front of her. “No horses here. Stay behind me.”

He stepped around the last bend of the stairs and Gaby clenched her hands around her Walther, counting to three in her head before following him. They reached another hallway lit in the dim red glow of emergency exit lights that flickered eerily, making monstrous shadows dance along the smooth walls.

No, Gaby thought, eyes widening. Not walls. It was _glass_. And behind every panel loomed a different predator: a white wolf with glinting eyeteeth, a hulking lion with huge paws, even a coiled anaconda that looked strong enough to crush a car. All of them looked at her with barely veiled malice.

“What is all this?” Gaby whispered, awed and shocked at once.

Illya peered into the closest window, face to face with a snarling Siberian tiger. “Animal smuggling. As cover for human trafficking.” He straightened and pointed at the door at the opposite end of the hallway. “Floor blueprints say that room is for monitoring. They should keep important records there.”

So he has memorized the blueprints. Just as well. Gaby couldn't wait to get out of here. “What are we waiting for?”

They made their way over to the door, the animal smell getting thicker the further they walked.

“Could be guards inside,” Illya warned and reached for the handle. “Ready?”

He opened the door.

-

“Hands up, both of you! I got a gun!”

Illya dropped down into a crouch and fired, moving in. The metallic clank of bullets hitting metal drowned out the following string of Irish curses.

Gaby ran in after him, looking around the room for cover, but there was none. Computer monitors lined the walls to her left and right, with a door right in the middle and a huge black safe took up the back of the room.

There was a movement behind one of the chairs scattered all over the place and Illya, crouching behind one himself, took aim.

Dark red curls appeared and Gaby paled. “Stop!”

Illya hesitated for a split second, and the young man took full advantage of it, darting out the side door before either UNCLE agent could recover.

Gaby saw Illya move to stand and sprung into action. She'd rather he not see this, anyway. “My fault, sorry, I got this. Find out where they're shipping our targets.”

She bolted before he could reply and, as soon as she passed the door, was hit in the face with a smell of gasoline and motor oil so strong it almost made her feel back at home. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light coming in from the windows, but then she realized that she was, indeed, standing in a chop shop. The bodies of at least five different cars were crammed into the small garage, most of them already gutted: a beautiful Pontiac Tempest to her left, suspended in the air, the hood opened towards her like the maw of a leaping wildcat, beside it a stylish Plymouth Barracuda cabriolet and sleek race cars similar to those she'd seen – and shamelessly fondled – on the Vinciguerra's race track. Gaby would _kill_ to get her wrench on cars like these.

From the right, a flash of movement caught her eye and she cocked her gun. “Stop right there!”

A shock of red hair poked out behind Chevrolet of almost the same flaming red color. The face it belonged to frowned. “Could've sworn it would be the Russian following me.”

Gaby walked towards him, dodging a box of tools that had been haphazardly stored away and hidden under a dirty rag. “You're supposed to be dead, Faraday.”

“Funny, I could say the same thing about you.” He didn't look overly concerned as he eyed her Walther.

“You could have called, you know?”

“Maybe I didn't want your friends to find me and lock me up.”

Something about the way he said it made an uneasy feeling stir inside Gaby, but she decided to puzzle it out later. “You should have thought about that beforehand. Step around the car, I want to see you,” she ordered, motioning with her gun. “One wrong move and I'll shoot you.”

Faraday smirked, stepping forward just enough so she could see the low-slung gun belt around his hips. He tapped the butt of one of the two revolvers. “No need for that, I hope.”

“Take it off.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your guns. Hand them over.”

He scowled, the corner of his mouth turned down, but did as told. There was really nothing else he could do with her gun trained on him, she reasoned, trying not to be unsettled by how easy it had been.

Faraday fumbled with the clasp of his belt and then frowned, bowing his head down to get a better look. He hooked a finger beneath the leather and tugged, but to no avail. When he reached for the zipper, Gaby cleared her throat loudly.

“Gimme a sec,” he mumbled and ducked behind the car.

She sighed, and then heard his boots shuffling on the concrete floor. With a curse, she dashed around the Chevrolet – and found herself staring right down the barrel of a pocket revolver.

Faraday smirked. “You're a total rookie.”

She raised her own gun. This close, she could catch the whiff of tobacco that clung to him: always the same bitter, scratchy brand, mingled together with the sour smell of stale smoke on his clothes. “Shut up.”

The sleazy curl of his lips turned mocking. “You're not going to shoot me.”

“Don't risk it.”

“You've grown.”

She lifted her chin. “Necessity.”

“I guess this is necessity, too?” He gestured to her weapon and then to himself. “Taking all those dangerous people out of the equation so the rest of the world can live in peace?”

“When it comes to the likes of you, yes.”

“So this is UNCLE's ugly face behind all that glorified idealism.”

“Someone has to do it.”

“Money for blood is a peculiar business.”

“You would know,” Gaby spat. Images flashed before her eyes: the tiny storybook village devoured by flames and smoke so thick just looking at it made her cough, the white church tower burned black. She'd stared at the fucking reports for _hours_ without even noticing how the paper turned wet enough to smear the ink.

Gaby resisted the urge to wipe away the sting in her eyes. “Is it worth it?”

Faraday stiffened, as if sensing her fury. “Some days.”

“And how much does THRUSH pay for a dead UNCLE agent these days?” The words came out more bitter than venom.

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Enough to kill _me_?”

“Hold on.” Faraday lowered the gun just a fraction, from her face to her chest. With a bit of luck, she might get two minutes to say goodbye before the shot killed her. “You think I work for _THRUSH_?”

“This is _their_ hideout.”

He frowned. “The security did seem a bit overboard. So those are not your exotic pets up there?”

It was Gaby's turn to look disgusted. “Of course not. UNCLE wouldn't resort to such barbarism. We're not like _you_.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, “I think there's been a bit of a misunderstanding here. I'm _not_ with THRUSH.”

This was so absurd Gaby was almost tempted to laugh. She opted for scowling because it was more menacing. “You want me to believe that while you're pointing a gun at me?”

“Pot. Kettle. Black.”

“What are you doing here, then?”

Faraday lowered his revolver and, with a twitch of his hand, the weapon disappeared out of sight. “I'm looking for someone. Errm, Goodnight Robicheaux.”

Gaby narrowed her eyes. That was one of the names on Waverly's list. “What do you need him for?”

“He went missing a few days ago and a friend of his wants him back enough to cash in some favors.” Faraday shrugged. “I owed him and he sent me snooping.”

Cocking her head, Gaby weighed her options. She wanted nothing more than to believe him. “So you're really not with THRUSH?”

He wiggled his little finger. “Pinky promise.”

Gaby lowered the gun but kept it in her hand.

“Thanks,” Faraday offered, his shoulders relaxing. “You haven't told me why _you're_ here yet.”

She shouldn't reply. But he already knew she was with UNCLE now, and they seemed to have the same reason to be here. “UNCLE keeps track of people with potentially dangerous skillsets, among them some World War II veterans. Nearly half of them disappeared last week, from one day to the next... no sign, no calls, nothing.”

“It's not unusual for people like that to drop off the map for a while.”

“One or two, yes. But thirty-five people at once?”

“Group vacation discount?”

“More like mass abduction.” She shook her head. “Your friend Robicheaux is one of them. He was holed up in New Orleans to sit out the storm you caused in Rose Creek.”

It wasn't a question. Gaby eyed him expectantly but only got a shrug.

“Apparently. We're trying very hard to forget each other, so I wasn't following his movements.”

“If THRUSH has the veterans, it's UNCLE's job to make sure they return unharmed,” Gaby said.

Faraday snickered. “Three dozen World War II veterans rescued by a pretty girl who hasn't even been through Survival School, eh? Your boss is a gambler.”

Gaby graciously decided to ignore the jibe. “You could come with us. Since we're looking for the same thing, we might as well work together.”

Additionally, it would give her some time to talk to him – and a lot of opportunity to wring him for details about what happened in Rose Creek.

“I think your Russian would disagree.”

“I'll convince him,” she assured easily. She could handle Illya. “Let's get out of here.”

There was a sudden creak behind her and one of the massive iron gates swung open. A single guard appeared, completely clad in black plus helm and tac vest. His bored expression changed as soon as he spotted them. “Intruders in hangar two!” he yelled.

“Brilliant plan,” Faraday agreed and pulled his guns.

-

They only made it back to the control room because the guard was screaming into his communicator before hurrying after them. Perhaps because he knew all following rooms just led deeper into the compound and therefore onto enemy ground.

Gaby threw herself through the door just as the first bullet wheezed past her. “Illya!”

He was crouching in front of the open safe door, a mass of papers haphazardly strewn across the floor. He raised his head in alarm, spotted her companion and immediately raised his gun.

“Don't shoot! He's with us,” Gaby cried, her breath rasping in her throat with each painful gasps.

Illya's gaze flickered past them to the open door. “And the other one?”

“Him you can shoot. I'd even advise it,” Faraday panted. “Shoot him.”

Glowering, Illya got up and waited, poised like a tiger about to go for a kill, except for the stack of papers under his arm. Once the guard reached the door, Illya fired a single shot. The man's eyes went wide, then rolled back into his head and he went down like a sack of bricks.

Faraday looked from the stunned guard to Illya. “Did you just take him out with a fucking _tranquilizer dart_?”

Illya nodded mournfully. “ _да_.”

“We're UNCLE,” Gaby said, as if that made it better. “We're the good guys and we really should get going.”

No one objected. The prospect of taking on the dozen or so men they could hear making their way through the chop shop was too terrifying.

They ran back past the animal cages, the emergency lights now flashing wildly, startling and aggravating the beasts. Their paws pounding against the glass was loud enough to drown out their footsteps, but not enough to distract Gaby from her own panicked heartbeat. Focused on running, she didn't notice the lion until he was right beside her, rising onto his hind-legs with a roar. She shrieked as he fell onto her, caught by the window between them that cracked beneath his weight.

Someone grabbed her hand – Faraday, she thought, because Illya had run ahead. Gaby's throat burned. Her fingers trembled around the grip of her gun.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Keep running!”

“What about you?”

More black clad men poured into the corridor.

“Josh!” Gaby yelled, tugging at his arm. “Come on! You can't kill them all.”

Faraday just grinned and fired. The glass panes exploded under the force of the bullets, raining down shards with a horrible clatter, like a chandelier crashing to the floor. Thunderous snarls followed in the wake of the noise, and a bark, and another deafening roar.

“That should keep them occupied. Let's get out of here.”

Taking two steps at a time, he and Gaby ran up the stairs. Illya awaited them at the top and shoved the file into Gaby's hands as soon as she got close enough. “Get out. I'll get Cowboy.”

“Wait! I'm coming with you.”

“Too dangerous,” Illya objected. “Place will be swarming with security in a few minutes.”

“But –”

“Now is not time to be a hero.”

Gaby squared her shoulders. “We're came in together and we're leaving together.”

“And him?”

Faraday twirled his revolver. “Three against too many... I _love_ impossible odds.”

-

They split up before they made it back to the ballroom, dodging or taking out the patrols that were on their way downstairs. Illya, Gaby discovered, was as methodical about this as he was about everything else: he bashed a man's nose in with icy calculation, relieving him first of his consciousness and then his gun, which he handed to Gaby. He pointed to a side corridor.

“You go that way. Clear exit.”

“Got it.”

She wasn't happy splitting up, but Illya had already adjusted his tie and opened the door to dive back into the ocean of colorful, tight-fitting dresses.

Faraday whistled through his teeth. “He's more of a Doer than a Talker, eh?”

“You should have seen him _before_.”

She peered down the corridor, found it empty and breathed a sigh of relief. She slipped her own gun back into its holster, since she wouldn't be able to use both of them at once while keeping her hold on the file. The guard's was heavier than hers.

“Before you narrowly avoided getting blown to bits?”

“Runs in the family,” Gaby replied tersely, snatched up the guard's flashlight and started to walk.

“Daddy builds the nuclear warheads, we dispose of them?” Faraday chuckled, following her. “Nice. Could be a family business.”

“He's dead.”

“I know. Italians are really shit at keeping secrets.”

“Rudi too.”

“Serves the bastard right. Fuck, I hope it hurt.”

“It doesn't bother you at all, does it?”

They both knew she didn't mean the sniveling Nazi weasel Rudi.

Faraday shrugged. “He was more your father than mine. And that says something.”

Gaby slowed. They had arrived at an intersection. She tried to recall the plans she'd seen of this floor but came up empty. “I didn't come here to talk about Udo,” she said slowly, sweeping the floor with the yellow light cone. “I'm glad you're alive.”

“Same.”

She shot him a suspicious look, but he actually sounded sincere. Until he cleared his throat. “Though you're a useless spy.”

Scowling, Gaby punched his shoulder. “I can do this! If this mission is successful, I'm with UNCLE for good.”

“Survival School and all?”

“ _Alles_.” She cocked her head. The right corridor should lead right to the front of the complex. From there, they would need to steal a car, but they could tackle that problem once they got there.

Faraday blinked at her with an expression of wonder on his face. “You really want this.”

“Yes.”

Gaby turned off the flashlight, but she could still feel him staring at her. “What?”

“Well, if you're absolutely sure of this –”

She let out an irritated huff. “I _am_.”

“– then I'm going to introduce you to some friends of mine. And I'm not even gonna charge you for it, _sis_.”

Gaby snorted – not only because this was more than unexpected, but because a snappy _'You have friends?'_ was already on the tip of her tongue. She'd learned the hard way that her little brother was not a team player. That he was even offering to help her was a testament that he'd changed. It made her uncomfortable. “Do those friends have names?”

“Jack Horne.”

She stopped dead in her tracks. “ _The_ Jack Horne? The _legend_ Jack Horne?”

“The one who knows every secret even before it's secret, yes,” Faraday said proudly.

“How do _you_ know him?”

“That's a secret.”

Gaby rolled her eyes and opened the staff door. The lawn in front of the house was swarming with armed guards. A rataplan of machine-gun fire rattled the building, close enough to make her flatten herself against the wall with a curse. “ _Verflixt!_ They got backup!”

Faraday leaned over her shoulder to squint into the darkness. “Naw, I think that's just Billy.”

“Billy who?” another voice asked, startling them both into raising their guns.

Gaby scowled. “ _Verdammt!_ Napoleon, _lass das!_ ”

He grinned at her, completely unrepentant, fingering his open shirt collar, and Gaby could make out a few dark red splotched on his neck. Illya looked absolutely murderous, but Napoleon ignored him. “I don't know about you all, but I'm ready to leave this place.” He held out his hand to Faraday. “Napoleon Solo, pleased to meet you.”

“Faraday,” he replied, blinking rapidly. “And Billy _Rocks_. The one who's very interested in Goody's safe return,” he added in Gaby's direction. “One of his more famous aliases is _Park Chang-Yi_.”

Gaby recognized the name. Korean, mafia, well-connected and with a burning red flee-on-sight order on his file. “You've made some interesting friends.”

Faraday was still eying Napoleon with interest. “I'm not the only one.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _да_ – yes  
>  _Alles_ \- everything  
>  _Verflixt!_ – drat/damned/goddamn  
>  _Verdammt!_ – damn!  
>  _lass das!_ – knock it off!
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
